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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27974807">Friends of Empty Graves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyropesy/pseuds/SwapsWrites'>SwapsWrites (Pyropesy)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>All the warnings that come with Daisy, And being Irredeemable, And the Importance of Choice, Angst, Anxiety, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Choices, Claustrophobia, Coping, Gen, Identity Issues, Introspection, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner Friendship, Loss of Identity, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Pack Instincts, Panic Attacks, Police Brutality, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Season/Series 04, Self-Sacrifice, Sleep Deprivation, TMA Big Bang 2020 (The Magnus Archives), Themes of redemption, Violent Thoughts, a la MAG158: Panopticon, and the Buried/Hunt/Eye</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:08:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,840</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27974807</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyropesy/pseuds/SwapsWrites</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>After the coffin, she cuts her hair.</em><br/><br/><br/>Who is Alice Tonner? People are searching for her in the space she left behind, in the person she was. Daisy looks elsewhere, and tries not to choke.<br/><br/>(A Daisy &amp; Jon fic where Daisy tries, despite the inevitable end.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Basira Hussain &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>TMA Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Friends of Empty Graves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello hello. First time posting for this fandom, how exciting. Constantly fascinated by the narrative of an objectively irredeemable character trying to be better because it's the only way forward, and the notion that choice is the defining factor of humanity and morality and is our most important freedom. Also Daisy &amp; Jon being sad monster friends, yay! But whatever.</p><p>This piece was written for the TMA Big Bang hosted over <a href="https://tmabigbang.tumblr.com/fics/">here.</a>.<br/>It was meant to be a one-shot, but, um. I'm citing technical difficulties. Chapter 2 is done and coming in hot as soon as I have access to it. I'll insert links for the rest of the art then + probably merge it back into one chapter.<br/>Title from Canary in a Coal Mine by The Crane Wives, because Crane Wives discog is basically just the TMA OST</p><p>My super rad artist partners:<br/><a href="https://mininacl.tumblr.com/">@mininacle</a> (Header art)<br/><a href="https://vestolaris.tumblr.com/">@vestolaris</a> (Chapter 1 art)<br/><a href="https://talking4the1.tumblr.com/">@talking4the1</a> (Chapter 2 art)</p><p>My tumblr:<br/><a href="https://artswaps.tumblr.com/">@artswaps</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><em>Let the dirt hang heavy in your chest<br/></em> <em>Drag me deeper down the long, dark ground<br/><br/></em><em>Know that all my love will be your breath </em><br/><em>I will save you when your lights go out</em></p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>Her first breath of topside air comes with two revelations;</p><p>Basira is here, at last, and-</p><p>She can feel her blood. </p><p>The Archivist gives a single-handed push to the lid of their tomb, and it all comes back in a heady rush; loud enough to contest the terrible groan of reluctant wood, crowding her veins with a weak, pulling pulse. The flood of it twists grotesquely with the relief of freedom and sends her sprawling to the carpeted floor.</p><p>Jon’s hand is gross and warm and still a steady vice around her own. His is the first skin she’s touched, the first voice she’s heard that’s real, found in the dark of perdition and as much of something to cling to as the reminder of her own name. </p><p>The first eyes she meets are Basira’s, and it takes all of two seconds for her to regret looking up at all.</p><p>(Grit and filth coat every rotten inch of her, a heap of useless limbs regurgitated from the soil. Months of atrophying stillness, shattered from the steep climb <em> up- </em></p><p>
  <em> - this is the buried, and we are alive. There isn’t even an up-  </em>
</p><p>- leaving her legs wracked with visible tremors. Her muscles feel torn, her own hacking coughs like they’re bursting her eardrums in the suddenly endless space, and through it all Basira just stands there and sees her and <em> stares </em>with a stunned scrutiny that presses down as unyielding as the coffin.) </p><p>Two seconds. </p><p>And then Jon is muttering some half-hysterical nonsense between strangled breaths about them tracking mud in his office, and Basira’s face shutters as she looks away. Not quite fast enough to hide the gunshot-flash of disappointment that creases her eyes.</p><p>It’s too late; Basira has seen her with dirt trapped between her teeth and defeat in her eyes, and it’s enough to make Daisy feel like she’s come back not just different, but <em> wrong.  </em></p><p>A different kind of monster altogether. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>When she first got sectioned, it had been a thrill. They’d treated it like a revelation when they had given her the forms, handed her the pen with a weight like she was signing her soul away to silence. It’d been her and a stern higher-up in a suit, alone in a sparse room with a single table and a dim light. Very midday crime-drama. </p><p>But the click of the ball-point pen before she pressed nib to paper had felt more like the metallic <em> snap </em>of bolt-cutters, tearing through a gate she’d been prowling the outskirts of for years. There was nothing magnanimous about it. Just a hunch proved right. </p><p>This was a world of monsters, and Daisy worked for results. Simple as that.</p><p>So she signed her name, and nodded with disinterest as the suit wasted another five minutes of her life throwing around barely-veiled threats about <em> discretion, </em>and then she walked down the hall to the bathroom stalls and studied her face in the mirror. </p><p>Life purposes were for people who had less than her, and she wasn’t so thick-headed as to believe in destiny. But there was a familiar thrum of excitement in her veins, the same on-edge, almost giddy feeling that came with finding the proof that sells the case. </p><p>No, she did not have a destiny. Daisy had a job. </p><p>She had looked herself in the eye and grinned in a way that showed off her canines. The kind of grin that made her feel important in a world where no one and nothing really mattered. </p><p>“I’m Detective Daisy Tonner,” she spoke softly, and let the tiled station walls bounce it back to her. “And I hunt monsters”.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The first thing she does, after The Buried, is cut her hair.</p><p>Jon insists he’s fine. She doesn’t need to be a detective to see the lie, but her legs are screaming with pain and Basira is already shepherding her out of the room with a too-gentle hand that makes Daisy’s teeth clench. Leaving him to put himself back together, she snags a pair of plastic-handled scissors off of Jon’s desk without really thinking about why, and lets herself be led to the showers.</p><p>There’s a mirror above the sink. Frameless and square, bolted in with rusting screws at the corners. The reflection is an honest one; blunt teeth and bare collarbones and sun-sapped skin, all compacted into a small pane of water-spotted glass. The truth of her is somehow starker under the sallow light of the communal showers. </p><p>The person in the mirror is familiar. The person in the mirror is a stranger.</p><p>She is weak, broken, buried. She is a monster, and even in defeat her teeth are still bared. </p><p>She leans on the chipped basin with arms braced and shaking, and stares long and hard at what the Buried has reduced her to. Wonders- if she scrubs hard enough- whether she’ll find smudges of the old Alice Tonner underneath all the dirt and grime and rubble and fear. She hopes she doesn’t. She knows she will.</p><p>She strips, and leaves the glass door open as she washes. </p><p>Too many walls. </p><p>A deluge of filth sloshes off of her. The moulding shower floor is turned black the second she turns the water on, her cracked heels and splintered toenails soaking in the sludge. She thinks she may clog the drain with the amount of dirt that’s coming loose-</p><p>(<em> - like her throat, thick with grit and breathless, can’t even drag herself through the tunnel as it crushes and contorts her to fit within its walls-  </em></p><p>
  <em> - there’s no death here but the Choke pins her into premature rigor mortis and squeezes, holds her in place for an endless, unmoving eternity that she spends gasping, choking, suffocating on soil-  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> - lungs full of rubble and windpipe pressed against stone, losing track of herself in the dark with nothing to tell her where she ends and stone begins- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> - this is not a penance, this is damnation, and it’s agony as it forces itself down her airways- ) </em>
</p><p>Daisy gasps, and she’s back under the spray and scrambling away. She stumbles, catching her elbow on the shower door with a bang that rattles through useless bones. Doesn’t even feel it through the desperate search for air.</p><p>Her legs don’t make it to the basin. Weakened as they are, they give out the moment she steps from the shower. Crumpled and naked on the tiles- chest heaving, propped up by shaking arms- Daisy feels wretched and wounded and everything else she hates being, everything that drove her to proving she was more dangerous than the things she killed. </p><p>
  <em> (I don’t want to be a sadistic predator again.) </em>
</p><p>Her blood is singing for a hunt, and she feels sick. Her heart beats like a calling in her ears, muffling the drone of shower spray behind her. She watches dirtied water pool on the floor beneath her and clenches her teeth against the gray at the edges of her vision. She’s restless and untethered, skin itching with a killing need. She’s a million miles away, anchored beneath the earth. Her sharp gasps bleed into focus, hyperventilating in a strangled staccato rhythm that puts her in her place.</p><p>Of course. The Hunt didn’t stay buried. The dark and dirt, the suffocating pressure- it dulled the rush of blood until she ached in its silence. But it wasn’t enough to choke the predator out of her. She can’t be purged, only kept at bay.</p><p><em> (I don’t want to hobble around like some- </em> pathetic, <em> wounded prey, either. I don’t know which would be worse.) </em></p><p>Daisy presses her eyes shut. She won’t hide from this like a simpering, pathetic thing. She doesn’t deserve to be a coward about this.</p><p>She crawls across the tiles. She lifts her arms up and grips the edge of the sink. <em> One, two, three. </em> She pulls herself up.</p><p>Her legs and arms wobble, but she grits her teeth so the air hisses as it’s pulled into her lungs. When she meets the eyes of the feral thing in the mirror, she forces steel into its glare.</p><p><em> I’m scared, </em> she hears the words she said to Jon, the confession she’d asked him to pull out of her. <em> But I feel more me... than I have for </em> years. <em> Maybe all my life. </em></p><p>There was a certain clarity to the coffin, to being <em> forever deep below creation </em>where there was nothing to chase but air to keep breathing. The fear was thick and constant and impenetrable, but in the laden pauses between the shifting of earth, there was space for nothing but thought.</p><p>In the reduction of her world to fear and crawling, it had seemed simple. Where The Hunt’s influence no longer bloodied her perception, she could realise brutality for what it was. With that violence stripped from her, she had thought, surely whatever was left must be the real Daisy? Surely, without the need to hurt, there was still enough left in her to make up a whole person?</p><p>The scissors she’d taken from Jon’s office sit on the basin. She can feel her blood. Her veins are clogged with it and she can’t drown it out. Can’t drown her own words out as they swarm her head in Elias’ voice.</p><p>
  <em> I feel more me than I have for years. Everyone calls me Daisy. I like that because it sounds so gentle. Hunger was in me all my life. I feel more me than I have for years.  </em>
</p><p>What a joke. Without the chase, she’s nothing, no-one, prey, <em> pathetic- </em> she can feel it in her locked elbows and shaking arms, the splintered stubs of her nails throbbing as she clutches the basin and <em> growls. </em>She grabs the handle of the scissors and imagines the plastic snapping under her grip.</p><p>There’s nothing gentle about her. That had been the point, once- the thrill that came with knowing you’ve got teeth and choosing to hide them behind a smile hinting shine. Lip gloss and chapstick at the bottom of her bag. Hair grown out, long and blonde, tied back into a neat ponytail on the job. Nails unpainted and practical, but carefully maintained.</p><p>Daisy’s brand of softness was not inauthentic, but it did serve to hide the fuller, gory truth of her. Walking with light steps made her feel like a secret weapon. She’d avoid getting dirt stains in the boot of her car by wrapping the shovel with an old towel, then drive back to her apartment and condition her hair.</p><p>
  <em> It makes me feel strong, to know that the soft nickname everyone calls me comes from a bloody wound. And I like to feel strong. </em>
</p><p>Those gentle waves of blonde are a putrid mess now, black and tangled and filthy. She looks like a corpse, halfway to rotting. </p><p>She is not gentle. She does not feel strong. She is a monster. She is prey. Her heart is beating, and she can feel her blood. She is alive, somehow, <em> somehow, </em>and it’s the only thing she knows for sure. She is alive, and she has to deal with it.</p><p>It’s not a quick process. Her hair is like something pulled from a gutter, matted into chunks of stringy mud. She has to hack at it, fingers cramping around the flimsy scissors as she furiously works them through what the earth had already started reclaiming.</p><p>Alice Tonner does not know who she is, if she is anything at all. She will not keep deluding herself about who she was. </p><p>*</p><p>It takes almost three hours before she feels mostly dirtless. </p><p>Three hours, half-spent knees-to-chest on the shower floor when her legs stopped holding her, scrubbing and scrubbing at her skin to convince herself she couldn’t still feel soil in her esophagus. She’s covered in angry red welts and shivering from water that had gone cold after hour one. </p><p>Basira is still outside when she finally leaves the washroom, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. </p><p>“New look.” Her partner’s voice is thin and too careful. </p><p>Daisy can’t meet her eyes. “Yeah,” is all the acknowledgement she gives. </p><p>Basira sighs. The sound of it makes Daisy’s fists clench at her sides. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>She never met Michael Crew. The seconds between knocking down his door and bashing his head in didn’t count, obviously.</p><p>Neither had she met Terry Fletcher, who burnt through Daisy’s knife with her bare hands before taking a bullet to the stomach; or Sarah Baldwin before she became sawdust and skin. She’s hunted a lot of things that call themselves people, and all she knew about them came from the warrants that tacked a lot of monstrosities to their names. She does not regret that they’re dead, or that she was the one to kill them. She doesn’t question that most of them had deserved it.</p><p>It was never about <em> deserve, </em>though. She just did the dirty work; followed the call of blood until it led her to satiation. Two plus two is four, night follows day follows night, and anything inhuman needed to die. Justice was the ideal of pen-pushers.</p><p>What she regrets, now that her head is clear enough for the feeling to find her, is living in her brutality for so long she no longer remembers how to exist separate from it. Is she meant to feel guilt over them? Is that part of being… <em> better? </em> She doesn’t. She <em> doesn’t. </em> They were monsters, <em> (so was she) </em> and they were hurting people, <em> (so was she) </em>.</p><p>It was April when she killed Crew. Mid-spring, kinda cold out that day. Ground was a little damp as evening pulled in, and Jon kept tripping over the loose soil as she pushed him forward. </p><p>Daisy remembers putting the knife to Jon’s throat. Remembers his fear coating her nostrils and the way he kept stuttering, how <em> irritating </em> it was.</p><p>The thin skin was sheened with sweat and quivering; flesh splitting like tissue paper under the bob of his throat as his voice cracked and pleaded with her. There was no fight in him, no visible threat in his shaking limbs and rumpled, borrowed clothes. Desperate fear in his wet, wide eyes. </p><p>Blood had stained his collar; she hadn’t even meant to cut him yet, the little freak just wouldn’t stay still with all his damn <em> shaking. </em></p><p>She hadn’t fallen for it though; those same eyes had latched onto her- like a hound smelling an easy kill- the moment she’d first gotten close to him. That fearful, begging voice had once forced guarded words from her mouth with a laced question, a leech drawing blood. </p><p>Is she supposed to feel guilty for that, now? For trying to kill what she <em> thought </em>was a murderer? </p><p>(For not really caring if he was the culprit or not?)</p><p>
  <em> This is too far, Daisy. You know it is. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know what you do here. But I always thought you just killed monsters. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (I do!) </em>
</p><p>She hadn’t even realised she’d lied to Basira that day. Calvin Benchley had long grown out of the gap-toothed grin he’d had when they were eleven, but he’d still died human. First in a long line.</p><p>No, it was never about 'deserve.'</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Things have... <em> shifted, </em> since The Unknowing. She’s been gone longer than Jon has (since he apparently dipped out for a quick I’m-not-human-enough-to-die-properly coma) and she’s come back to a tension she can feel hanging in every empty hallway.</p><p>And the people… Well.</p><p>Basira and her aside, their rag-tag group of hostages, monsters and reluctant coworkers were never a team. But they at least had a unanimous goal. Something they forced themselves to focus on that distracted them from how trapped they all felt, and how much, with Elias being untouchable, they blamed each other for it instead.</p><p>And Jon. They all blamed Jonathan Sims. He was at the thick of it, after all, Elias’ little <em> pet project </em>. Still is, and the thought has her hackles raised. </p><p>Her control is tenuous. Trying to think around the push and pull of her heartbeat when it makes an echo-chamber of her eardrums is painful, leaves Daisy’s head swimming. Now that they’re not confined underground, now that the Hunt isn’t a just muzzled memory tainting her veins, she doesn’t know if it’s safe to be around the Archivist. If he gets within knife-range again, her patron might make the decision for her.</p><p>Luckily, he’s easy to avoid. Doesn’t show his face much, according to Basira.</p><p>They’re scattered to the winds. From the sounds of it, Basira is MIA more often than anyone is comfortable with, and whenever she <em> is </em> at the Institute, there’s something tremulous about her presence whenever the two of them are in the same room. Basira keeps <em> looking </em> at her, is the thing. Searching, careful, and worst of all, <em> patient </em>. </p><p>Daisy knows what she’s waiting for, and it has her adopting a newfound cowardice. She grits her teeth and smiles when her partner comes in with cups of tea she didn’t ask for. She bites her tongue when Basira’s hands linger worriedly after helping her to and from the floor during physical therapy. There’s a collision sitting sour between them and growing closer every day, but Daisy cannot bring herself to meet it head-on, can’t put to words the disappointment she knows she’ll have to deliver eventually.</p><p>Timothy Stoker is dead. Shame. The way she hears it though, it’s thanks to him that the whole mission wasn’t a total bust.</p><p>Martin Blackwood is... somewhere? Honestly, she’s assumed he was amongst their body-count when she went her first week back without seeing hide nor hair of him. Figured Elias had done him in before his arrest, maybe. Or some other evil thing had gotten its teeth in him in the months since. </p><p>It’s worse than that, though. Basira had been brusque in her explanation, but apparently The Lonely has infested the Institute, and Blackwood started cuddling up to one Mr. Peter Lukas the moment the chain of command shifted. </p><p>That means he’s probably either in trouble, or a threat. Daisy had never seen him as one- or as much of an asset either- but not knowing what he’s up to sets her teeth on edge.</p><p>Melanie is hard to pin down. She flits between her own business and loitering at the Institute, and Daisy isn’t sure what her deal is. The first time they saw each other in the week after the coffin, Daisy was sitting cross-legged on a desk in the library, hovering while Basira read.</p><p>Melanie did not look as surprised to see her alive as she should have. Her lips pulled up into a wry, angular smile as she approached and stood before them. She looked tired, in the way everyone here does, but also… changed. Resolute in manner and movement. The aftermath of a storm, when the torrent recedes to a steady drizzle.</p><p>“Well,” she greeted, lilting- a little amused, a little deadpan; she’s always liked Mel’s snark- “I dunno how that idiot keeps getting away with <em> not </em> dying, but at least something good finally came out of it.” </p><p>Daisy grinned, and was surprised to find it was genuine. “Hi, Melanie.”</p><p>That sharpness softened, collapsing into fondness. She crossed her arms and leaned a hip against their table. “Glad to have you back, Detective,” she said.</p><p><em> Glad to be back, </em>Daisy didn’t reply, because she’s not sure yet if it’s true.</p><p>Instead, she ran a hand through her choppy hair and settled on, “Glad to be out.” </p><p>When Basira finally pulled her head out of her book, Melanie insisted on lunch. The three of them picked through stodgy fish and chips, leaving the tiny break-room waste bin full of grease paper. It’s as much fanfare as Daisy’s return to the archives gets, and the first time since seeing daylight again that the walls don’t feel seconds from caving in on her.</p><p>But when she ducked out to the bathroom, it came crashing back. Her breathing was thin the entire time she was alone, and when the tap is running she thinks she hears that song-like moaning that comes with the rain.</p><p> </p><p><br/>*</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Her first <em> real </em>Hunt after the Section 31- after that day in the rain, where she came face to face with her tomb fifteen years before walking into it- was a thing of The Slaughter.</p><p>The girl had lived alone. An apartment complex with thin walls. A grandfather recently passed, and an insistence on claiming the old gramophone that sat disused in his attic before her parents could pawn it off.</p><p>From the looks of the crime scene, after cleaning the dust off and testing it out she’d intended to let it play while preparing dinner. Fish fillet. A nice, well-maintained knife set.</p><p>Nine tenants in that complex with the thin walls. Hard not to hear the music, or the screams of your neighbours as they were murdered, one by one, by that quiet girl down the hall. Daisy used to wonder why they didn’t run. They must have known it was coming. Must have spent their last hours paralysed in fear, waiting to die in violence.</p><p>Daisy doesn’t wonder anymore.</p><p>She killed them quickly, but spaced it out. Made it unpredictable. Took the whole night for the gramophone to stop playing. When Daisy was called to the scene the next morning, there was no record in the damn thing. The turntable sat empty, the needle clicking away at nothing.</p><p>The girl had been young. Mid-twenties. And she looked so <em> human. </em>She didn’t even run, at first; it’s like she’d stopped hearing the music, and had just dropped. Sat at her kitchen table, twirling the fillet knife in her hands and crying. She didn’t have a tablecloth, so the blood had seeped into the cracks in the varnish.</p><p>When she saw Daisy pull out the handcuffs, <em> then </em>she bolted. Threw herself out the freaking window. </p><p>Took Daisy three days to track her down. She dropped briefly off the radar herself to do it. The slippery bitch had killed nine people, which meant Detective Tonner was in the clear to <em> do her job.  </em></p><p>She’d grinned, when she finally caught up. Felt it pulling wild at her teeth, felt her fingers flex at her sides. A rumbling in her throat and the hair on her arms, neck, back standing on end. It was dark, some one-way back-alley under a streetlamp, and the wicked glare of that knife as it caught the light is what made her lunge.</p><p>Only took a single bullet, in the end. She aimed for the throat.</p><p>The girl had been young. A quiet neighbour. No previous criminal record.</p><p>She had been prey.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The nights are the worst.</p><p>The Institute is creepier now that she knows the nature of the shadows hanging over the place. Worse still because she’s sure most of the employees outside of the archives <em> don’t. </em> Elias is gone, but there’s an undeniable presence here that goes so far beyond him, that’s so ingrained into the brick and steel and woodwork. They’re being watched.</p><p><em> Duh, </em> of course they are, the place is a hive for the bloody Eye. But she’s <em> aware </em>of it now, and It’s like trying to rinse grease off your hands without soap; it clings, and the more you try and scrub it off, the worse it feels. The attention scrapes against her every move, and she’s not used to feeling like prey.</p><p>After that first day fresh out of the grave, Basira had helped put her up in one of the spare rooms, a semi-permanent cot set up wedged between two metal shelving units of dusty boxes. </p><p>Her apartment was gone, obviously. Good old London landlords; probably didn’t even wait for her missing person’s case to go cold before they rented it back out. But Basira had apparently swept it the moment she was able after the explosion and grabbed a bunch of Daisy’s clothes.</p><p>A surprisingly impractical move, coming from Basira, who quite rightfully hadn’t expected her to come back at all. It couldn’t have been hope that drove it. Grief is weird, she supposes; squeezes sentimentality out of strange places.</p><p>She had tried to insist Daisy stay at her’s for a while, but the idea lodged uneasiness in her chest. The Institute might be a literal house of horrors- not to mention depressing as hell- but it’s where everyone <em> was. </em>The thought of being kept out of the loop, waiting around all day until Basira was able to fill her in, made her feel restless. Worried. </p><p>So, camping out in a dusty old storage room it was. </p><p>The cot looked flimsy as hell; great for the back. Daisy sat on the edge to give reprieve to her legs, and felt it dip slightly with a creak. Smoothed a hand over the creases in the thin sheet. It had looked recently slept in, and when she’d asked, Basira’s face twisted. </p><p>“Jon barely uses it, anyway,” was the reply. “I think he’s been sleeping in his office. Or doing God knows what else when the door is locked.”</p><p>Daisy had shifted on the spot, feeling uncomfortable and not entirely knowing why. If Jon was gonna pass up on a perfectly functional bed, then she may as well make use of it. Nothing to feel guilty for.</p><p>(He had begged for his life. It took focus to hold the knife steady, with how much he’d been shaking.)</p><p>(Jon hadn’t been shaking when he found her hand. His grip was anchor-steady and doubtless. Why, why, why?)</p><p>From the curtness in Basira’s voice, it was obvious she doesn’t trust him at all. Which was sensible, of course. Daisy doesn’t, either. Doesn’t exactly hold it <em> against </em> him anymore, not like Basira still seems to, but she doesn’t <em> trust </em>him.</p><p>There was no sleep in the coffin, which means she never dreamed. She didn’t doubt that he’d be back that night, though. Watching her nightmares. </p><p>Her neck itches.</p><p>Night one was sleepless. Basira offered to stay, of course, but Daisy couldn’t take the carefully awed way her partner would look at her. The way Basira would move to put a hand on her shoulder before pausing, pulling away. As if Daisy would disappear, or shatter, or flinch. </p><p>(Or as if she wasn’t there at all; like she was a ghost of the real Daisy, the one who knew how to fight. Who’s pride was steel that couldn’t bend to fit the bow of her back here, hunched over in the dust and dim light. </p><p>Like Basira was earnestly trying to find a killer’s intensity in the shades of washed-out gray she’d become.)</p><p>“Do you need anything else?” she was asked before Basira headed off.</p><p>“Just… leave the door open?”</p><p>A nod in response. Basira hovered for a second, on the brink of closing a gap. Or poking at a wound. And then Daisy was staring at her knees, listening to her footsteps peter away down the hall.</p><p>Alone again.</p><p>She tried sleeping. Fabric scraped against her arms, shoulders, ankles whenever she shifted, and her breathing would pick up the split-second she mistook it for the slide of course soil. It didn’t take long to throw the meagre blanket off entirely.</p><p>Forcing herself to stay still and count out her breathing didn’t work. Lying there unmoving came with a lancing paranoia that it would stick; she wouldn’t be able to squeeze her limbs any further through the narrow passage and the stone would squeeze and press inwards and she’d be trapped again, breathless, atrophied, <em> stuck- </em></p><p>Nope. </p><p>Not doing that. </p><p>She slung her legs over the bed and shakily stood up. Started walking.</p><p>It became a nightly thing. At first she had to cling to whatever she could reach to keep upright and drag herself along. Her legs are bad, but not as damaged as they <em> should </em>be, given that it’s apparently been six months since she used them. Maybe it was some leftover influence of The Hunt’s, maybe a sick feature of The Buried that kept its victims semi-preserved. But by the fourth night wandering around the Institute halls, she can walk fairly normally, only having to stop and catch her breath every few minutes.</p><p>The movement helps. Even if being here is a different kind of trapped, even if it’s eerie as hell with no company but her own footsteps echoed back to her, lying still for too long can trick her into choking on dirt that’s not there. Her chest is tight and aching with the anxiety and it still feels like she has no room to breathe.</p><p><em> You got out, </em> she keeps telling herself. <em> You’re not there. </em></p><p>But <em> why </em> isn’t she? The Eye obviously wanted her back for some reason. Or Web, maybe. No way in hell did Jon pull her from the dirt out of the goodness of his heart. Either he’s got ulterior motives, or- more likely- someone was using him for theirs. </p><p><em> Fuck, </em>she hates Beholding. It doesn’t care who she is or what she thinks of it, doesn’t care which god has its claws hooked in her spine, or whether she wins the struggle to tear free or succumbs. It’s just here for the show.</p><p>Daisy feels like a stick of chalk, bleached bone-white, made of brittle dust and ready to snap. She almost regrets cutting her hair, because the back of her neck itches constantly from the scrutiny. It’s watching her in her weakness, revelling in the sight of her haunting the halls at night to shake the fear of entombment. She has to fight not to walk around with a hand cupped to her nape.</p><p>But she’ll take it over Buried.</p><p>So it goes on. Daytime is a trial of endurance. Of breathing through the abrupt moments of sudden surety that The Buried will take back its claim, that whatever ground she’s standing on will split open and drag her back down. Or pressing palms to her ears to drown out the blood promising that she’ll be safe, <em> free, </em>if she just swallowed her weakness.</p><p>Melanie and Basira both, they make such a point of not leaving her alone. It’s out of concern, she knows, and it’s <em> true </em>that being by herself for too long makes it worse, makes her breathing go haywire. But it’s becoming a different kind of suffocating.</p><p>Basira and her, they still haven’t really <em> talked. </em> Daisy feels caught in the middle of the other’s confliction; she’s treated so <em> carefully, </em> like she’s made of china, and she wants to bite and snap and <em> claw </em>at something, just to prove she still can. But then in the same movement Basira places a glass of water carefully in Daisy’s reach, she’ll level her with a look that makes her want to crawl out of her own skin.</p><p>“How are you feeling?” Basira keeps asking, always in a flat, careful voice that leaves room for expectancy, that says she wants the answer to be a defined <em> ‘better!’  </em></p><p>And Melanie is another story. She’s just as much a firecracker as she’s always been; brittle and more wounded than Daisy remembers, but still glaring down the world around her. She’s going to <em> therapy, </em> which Daisy doesn’t know what to think of. That wild brand of spitfire anger that was <em> Mel </em>hasn’t disappeared, but it’s changed. Less of a crutch, more like a weapon; she won’t fall back on it anymore- doesn’t let her burn her up when she feels cornered- but Daisy can tell that she’s still ready to wield it if she’s pushed.</p><p>The thing is, she has this look to her now, whenever she’s alone with Daisy. The corners of her mouth soften, her voice gets this cheerful edge of comradery or encouragement. She heard about what happened with the bullet and The Slaughter from Basira. It still takes her a while to recognise the empathy in Melanie’s eyes. When she pins it down, her stomach drops.</p><p>As if Melanie receding from The Slaughter is the same thing as Daisy pulling herself from The Hunt. As if Daisy wasn’t <em> born </em> with her blood singing for the chase. War clung to Melanie’s anger and warped it, changed it. Before that, her anger had always been a thing of <em> resistance, </em>not of directionless, bloody violence. Daisy, on the other hand, always revelled in being a Hunter.</p><p>So the company is hard to weather. But it’s better than being alone. And at night, alone and restless is better than alone and stationary.</p><p>People stay clear of the archives. She has no idea what kind of reputation they’ve gained from the rest of the Institute, but it’s enough to keep people away. In that way, it’s simultaneously the loneliest and most crowded floor of the building. </p><p>That woman in reception, Rosie, locks the front door when she clocks off at night, so the other Institute staff must leave at some point before that. Basira said that according to Jon, some of the researchers will often stay late, but if that still happens Daisy has no idea which exit they’re leaving from.</p><p>All of which means that during the day, it’s the best place to wander unbothered. It’s quiet, down here. Everyone is usually just a hall or two away, and they all already know everyone else’s dirty little secrets, so there’s no fielding awkward questions about who she is or why she looks like she’s half-dead. If the anxiety starts shackling itself too tight around her airways, she just needs to keep an ear out for one of the others puttering around in the break room, or rifling through storage boxes for files. Or in Melanie’s case, fingers tapping to music and a lot of annoying videos of internet personalities.</p><p>The night is different. Muted. The Institute feels more honest then, like peeling the paint back on moulded wood. There’s no buzz of mundane breakroom chatter or the distant chime of elevators to mask the intent of the place. Watching the quiet settle is like leaving a drink out for too long and seeing the components separate: shows you what’s <em> really </em> in here, if you wait for things to disperse. This place is nothing but a collection, a compact den of fear curated to the one who watches over it. </p><p>The night is when it’s the most claustrophobic, too. </p><p>Martin apparently started the trend, after the… bug thing? (Worm lady? Whatever. She’s not jealous she missed <em> that </em> year of Elias-brand workplace hazards.) He’s never down here anymore, but for practicality’s sake, it’s caught on. </p><p>Basira’s the only one who ever goes home, but even she doesn’t bother sometimes. If she’s researching late, she’ll take the couch in the break room when she’s ready to pack it in.</p><p>Melanie is apparently crashing in the tunnels. Beholding is blind down there, so Daisy supposes it’s safer, but there’s no goddamn way she’s stepping foot into a dark, shifting labyrinth of underground corridors. </p><p>(As for Jon… well, she barely sees him, and makes sure <em> he </em> doesn’t see <em> her, </em>but Basira was right. He never leaves his office, if he can help it. Daisy knows he’s sleeping in there, because in the stray hours of rest she catches in the early mornings, he’s always in her dreams. </p><p>Watching through the downpour- a still figure standing in the thick of passing traffic, slated in the muted beams of headlights- as the delivery van approaches with back doors open, and she falls like dead weight into the earth. In those dreams, he doesn’t come after her, and she’s left to rot like she deserves.)</p><p>They’re all gathered in the belly of the beast and making their beds there. It’s insane, that they’re not forcing as much distance as they can between themselves and this hotpot of <em> literal </em>evil. But none of them feel right turning their backs for too long, either.</p><p>Which means that the relative solitude of the archives when the sun’s up turns into the most crowded floor of the building, come night. The comforting background noise of on-the-clock busywork turns into questionable noises that have her pausing on her darkened wanderings until she’s absolutely certain she didn’t imagine that sound, and that it’s not the grating slide of silt and rock.</p><p>She takes to checking all of the rooms as she goes. Whether it makes her feel better or worse to find them mostly empty, she can’t say. But she can’t stamp down the paranoia as she paces the length of the entire floor again and again, night after night.</p><p>Daisy is tired. </p><p>It’s just her here tonight. Melanie is at a… <em> friend’s </em> place. (She’s being cagey about it, but Daisy heard them on the phone the other day and she <em> knows </em>it’s Georgie Barker.) She’s done two laps already, in between bouts of sitting on the cot and deep-breathing through onslaughts of claustrophobia.</p><p>Lap three around the archive floors and she’s more tired than she was. She loiters in the tiny kitchen, rifles through the junk in the fridge, labelled with other people’s names and <em> ‘don’t touch!’. </em>Listens to some more of the backlog of Archers episodes she missed while she was in a haunted coffin picking up her shiny new trauma. </p><p>Ducks her head into all the little janitor closets and storage rooms, the bathroom, the empty rooms with empty desks that Basira usually flits between with her arms full of files. She makes herself a cup of coffee, takes a sip, and pours it down the drain. </p><p>She walks. Rubs the back of her neck. Growls when she realises what she’s doing and tells The Eye to <em> fuck off and let her brood in peace. </em></p><p>It’s nearing three in the morning by her third trip down the hallway to the Head Archivist’s office.</p><p>She stops. The light’s still on under the door.</p><p>It’s… quiet. A humming from the lights, or ventilation, or whatever it is that always makes big buildings hum. No talking, though. He’s not recording right now.</p><p>Which means he’s doing something else. Probably nothing spooky or nefarious, right? Maybe he just fell asleep with the lights on.</p><p>Daisy’s skin itches. </p><p>The line of dull yellow glow seeping from the office looks like a warning sign. She can’t quite crane her head up to look away from it, and realises this is the closest she’s been to him, alone, since the coffin.</p><p>She… she needs to keep walking. </p><p>Mind made up, she turns to move. A voice calls out.</p><p>“Did you need something, Detective?”</p><p>Immediately, her hackles raise. She doesn’t think she made any noise on her approach, and her shadow isn’t crossing the doorway at all, so-</p><p><em> Monster, </em> her mind seethes with a stomach-turning edge of eagerness. He <em> Knew </em>she was out here, capital-K. Daisy tampers it down. Ignores the way her heartbeat has picked up, and breathes as she goes to turn the handle. </p><p>Jonathan Sims looks a mess. She hovers in the entrance to his office with one hand still on the door, stuck in place while they stare each other down. </p><p>The first time they’d met, he’d been unravelling. A little scruffy, but still making an effort to dress professionally. Button-down shirt, slacks, sweater vest. Now he looks like he’s at the tail-end of a weekend with no plans.</p><p>A rumpled green cardigan. Days worth of stubble. Long hair falling out of its tie in a mess of flyaways. She realises she hasn’t actually <em> looked </em> at him since they crawled towards the surface together. No light underground, after all; Jon’s torch had died before he’d found her. And the brief glimpses she’s caught of him since, she was trying hard <em> not </em>to pay him much mind. </p><p>Jon looks bad. As tired as the rest of them, at least. Good to know that being The Eye’s favourite plaything doesn’t grant him too many special favours.</p><p>“Pretty late, Sims,” she says to break the tension.</p><p>He’s obviously just finished going through his own similar assessment of her, because he responds stiltedly, “You look- um.”</p><p>She raises an eyebrow. <em> Go on. I dare you. </em></p><p>“I like your hair,” is what he lands on. </p><p>Daisy blinks. It’s unexpected enough to jolt her out of their standstill, and she finally lets go of the door to take a step forward with a scoff.</p><p>There’s a cheap, green armchair pushed to the side of the room. Probably used for the poor saps who used to come and give statements in-person, before Jon figured out what that led to. She jerks her head towards it.</p><p>“Mind if I sit in?” </p><p>It’s probably fine. He’s not recording, just reading through files. Regular research, like Basira does. Besides, now she knows there’s someone else up and about, she doesn’t want to be alone.</p><p>Jon hesitates, glances down at the papers on his desk. Towards the door she left part-way open.</p><p>“Yes, I- I mean, it’s a bit dull, but y- that won’t be-” The stuttering is kind of annoying, but she waits. She’s used to making people nervous, after all. After a deep breath, he finds the words. “Of course, Daisy, you’re welcome to stay.”</p><p>“Great.”</p><p>The chair has stubby feet that bounce on the carpet when she drags it closer. She collapses with a sigh, stretching her legs out. Jon watches her the whole time with a weird look on his face a bit like a startled deer. </p><p>“Daisy, are you... Um.” </p><p>She tips her head to rest on the back of the chair. Narrows her eyes at the ceiling. “What?” she grumbles.</p><p>“Are you- how are you doing?”</p><p>She huffs out a flat laugh, because seriously? <em> What does it look like, </em> she thinks harshly. <em> What do you expect? What is it that </em> you <em> want from me? </em></p><p>“Bad.” It’s all she gives him.</p><p>She expects more questions that tip-toe around her feelings. (<em> How are you sleeping? Are your exercises working? Do you remember how to live, yet? When will you be useful again?) </em></p><p>Jon says, “Hm,” and looks back to his work. </p><p>Daisy waits, but there’s nothing else.</p><p>“That’s it?” She blinks, a little incredulous. People have made such a habit of <em> fussing </em>lately, of taking her well-being personally, for whatever reason. It’s a strange divergence from her new norm, to be faced with such blunt acceptance of the state she’s in. </p><p>A little bit funny, even. After all, Jon is the one who went to all the trouble of saving her.</p><p>Said Archivist looks back up again, blinking in mild confusion. “Well,” he says haltingly, “unless there’s anything I can do to help-”</p><p>“There’s not.” He’s done enough. Daisy can handle the rest on her own. Take charge of herself and her actions, for once. “And I- I don’t want to talk. About it all.”</p><p>“Well, then… let me know, I guess?” he offers. There’s a sincerity in Jon’s eyes she has no idea what to do with. Makes her feel all slimy with guilt. </p><p>She shrugs in indefinite answer; he takes it for the sign it is and lets his attention drop back to what he was doing.</p><p>It’s quiet. Jon mutters to himself, occasionally, before remembering there’s someone in the room with him. Daisy observes him, feeling weirdly at ease. There’s the occasional scritching of pen on paper, or the drag of highlighter. A clock is ticking. Daisy notes with some amusement that he’s put it facedown on the desk so he doesn’t have to see his own bad decisions regarding sleep schedules.</p><p>Minutes pass in that peaceful stasis before she thinks to look at what he’s working on. There’s notations and marked paragraphs all over the pages, so they must be photocopies of old statements. </p><p>
  <em> Carter Chilcott; Naomi Herne; Tadeus Dahl; Morland House, The Tundra, Lukas, Lukas, Lukas- </em>
</p><p>“Lonely?” she asks when it clicks. </p><p>Jon doesn’t even look up from where he’s tapping his pen against a section of text. “Isn’t everyone?” </p><p>Against her will, Daisy snorts. That gets his attention. “Scoping out our latest evil overlords, are you?”</p><p>Call it scratching an itch; she has a feeling she knows the biggest reason behind this investment, but honestly she hadn’t thought it was a… reciprocated situation. A Monster Archivist with a crush is pretty funny, though. </p><p>Funnier than watching someone openly pining over a murder suspect, mid-interrogation over the fugitive’s whereabouts. That was just sad.</p><p>Jon clears his throat. “Something like that,” he says. </p><p>She hums, lilting the end of it up in a question. </p><p>“Specifically, uh- I’m going back over instances of people escaping The Lonely? Finding their way out once they’re pulled in.” He starts fidgeting, picking up random pieces of paper and putting them down again. “It seems to require some sort of- of anchor. On the outside. The same concept as what I tried with The Buried and my ri-”</p><p>He stops short. Clears his throat again. <em> His what now? </em></p><p>“What I tried with The Buried.” He quickly amends, and she decides not to ask. “That <em> failed </em> though, and I’m unsure what about it was lacking! It seemed like a sound plan. Perhaps it’s solely that it lacked a strong enough emotional component, but I’m not <em> sure.” </em></p><p>Jon seems to lose steam at that. He deflates, frowning with his hands hanging mid-gesture in the air.</p><p>Just to poke the bear: “So. Heard from Blackwood, then?”</p><p>To his credit, he only splutters a little bit before glaring at her. “That’s- please be quiet. It was nicer when we were quiet.” </p><p>Daisy smirks, but obliges. </p><p>They settle back into silence. She’s a little unnerved about how <em> easy </em>it is to be this close to him, all things considered. She’s known a couple of people who are good at holding quiet grudges, but Jon shows no trace of wanting her to leave. Braver than she gave him credit for, at least. </p><p>Or. </p><p>Or maybe she <em> can’t </em> hurt him, and he knows that. Maybe it’s like Elias, in that Basira and Melanie might get caught in some kind of fatal backlash if she kills him. Beholding wanted her back for a <em> reason- </em></p><p>- but, no. No. She’s overthinking this. Overthinking <em> Jon. </em> No one who gets kidnapped three times in a row by <em> three different parties </em>is smart enough to think through so many failsafes. She keeps telling herself that, while quietly prying her clenched fingers off the armrests of the chair.</p><p>Honestly, it had been… nice, up until that paranoia spiral. There was something about Jon’s presence that didn’t press on her nerves the way Basira’s and Mel’s have been. Like the room isn’t as small.</p><p>No. Not quite.</p><p>More like there’s more space for her in it. She’s not crowded by expectations. Daisy can exist as she is; damaged, unforgivable, <em> trying. </em></p><p>Jon does not expect her to overcome this. He is not holding forgiveness above her head like a prize- a finish line- because he can't ever forgive her. That, at least, is black and white.</p><p>He doesn’t expect her to win or fail. Because he knows what it’s like to not realise you’ve changed for the worse until it’s too late, and he knows there’s no coming back from it. Not for them.</p><p>There’s only going forward; there’s only choice. And there’s no softening the blow of it, or easing the burden, or living out the rest of their lifespans healthy and content. But it’s theirs, and it’s as close to human as they’re going to get.</p><p>That’s why his company tonight hasn't been stifling; Jon understands. </p><p>The understanding is all they know to expect from each other, and it feels both minimal, and vitally important.</p><p>The longer the hour drones on, the more sleeplessness catches up with Jon. He keeps huffing out these irritating little sighs, pushing his glasses up to rub at tired eyes. It doesn’t take much longer for him to reach a limit. He puts his pen down. Daisy watches curiously as he sags forward with closed eyes and props his head up on a fist. The papers crinkle quietly under his elbow.</p><p>He stays there. The only way she knows he hasn’t fallen asleep is that now and then, his finger taps against the desk in sluggish thought.</p><p>“Alright?” she checks in. She doesn’t really care; if he has a headache now, it’s his own fault. But it’d be weird to ignore it and just keep sitting here watching him.</p><p>He hums in dismissal. It’s husky with exhaustion. “Resting my eyes.”</p><p>“Maybe you should call it quits.” </p><p>She’s ignored. Jon has completely checked out. A couple minutes go by, and Daisy realises he actually has fallen asleep. He’s buckled slightly in his propped-up position, skewing his glasses off the brim of his nose. They hang lopsided on his face, and she huffs in stifled laughter. Stands up, reaches forward to pluck them off for him before she leaves for her own bed-</p><p>- and stops. It’s a physical jolt. A lightning-strike realisation, cold water cascading down her back.</p><p>The Archivist is completely unguarded. Vulnerable. <em> Killable. </em></p><p>She’s leaning over him, a hand outstretched towards his face (<em>its </em>face. Its <em>sleeping </em> face) and the monster’s eyes aren’t even <em> open, </em> isn’t that irony delicious- </p><p>Her blood is alive. Suddenly, violently. A surging tide awakens in her chest, tingling in her fingertips, whiting out the world around her as a singular focus alights, sense aligned towards this perfect, fleeting opportunity. A monster, a mark, a threat, a prize- <em> prey. </em></p><p>
  <em> Take it.  </em>
</p><p>Thump. Thump. Thump.</p><p>
  <em> Take it. </em>
</p><p>Its neck is exposed, the cardigan swooping low on collarbones. She doesn’t have a weapon, but there’s strength in her hands- only takes ten seconds for someone to black out, then all she has to do is keep holding on, five minutes of pressure, feel its heartbeat sputter and die-</p><p>
  <em> Thump. Thump. Thump thump. Thump thump thumpthumpthumpthumpthump- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Take it, Daisy.  </em>
</p><p>You’re a Hunter, right?</p><p>Right,<em> Daisy?  </em></p><p>Why do they call her Daisy? Such a soft name for a killer.</p><p>Such a-</p><p>
  <em> It doesn’t really look like a daisy, more like a starburst- </em>
</p><p>- soft name, for-</p><p>
  <em> It makes me feel strong. I like to feel strong.  </em>
</p><p>- for a killer? But-</p><p>
  <em> I like to be in control. I feel more me than I have in years. The soft nickname everyone calls me comes from- </em>
</p><p>It came from a bloody wound.</p><p>She breathes in. It’s harsh, and sharp. It’s an inwards collision. She remembers cutting his throat and being underground and not dying. Her still-outstretched hand is shaking. Jon is asleep. </p><p>
  <em> One thing I’ve learned, Daisy, is that we all get a choice. </em>
</p><p>She breathes out. It rattles. It’s an outwards collapse. The world loses its razor-sharp edges. Her limbs are locked in place. The face-down clock is ticking and her fingers have driven grooves into the desk and Jon is asleep and she doesn’t want to kill him.</p><p>Daisy breathes in. Daisy breathes out. Daisy plucks the glasses from his face.</p><p>Daisy kicks the desk. Hard.</p><p>Jon wakes up, yelping, and flails to stay in his chair.</p><p>“Up, Sims!” she yells. “You’re done. Go sleep in a bed.”</p><p>There’s an awkward, exhausting process that goes into getting Jonathan Sims to rest, she finds out that night. A lot of arguing, poking, physically taking his documents away and holding them above his head in a childish game of keep-away, and manhandling. </p><p>Basira is away, which means the break room couch is free. There’s a blanket and everything. First-class. She pushes the back of his shoulders through the door and watches, eagle-eyed, until he gives in. Jon collapses, grumbling. He yawns, tries to disguise the yawning as more grumbling, and then falls asleep in two minutes flat.</p><p>Daisy… watches. Her heart hasn’t settled all the way. There’s still a shakiness to her, from the top of her skull to the soles of her feet. She wants to feel horrified at herself, at what she almost did, but exhaustion has bled her dry.</p><p>Jon’s chest rises and falls. A lock of loose hair falls in front of his nose, and moves every time he breathes out. She stopped herself. She’s still human.</p><p>Doesn’t feel like a win.</p><p>She pulls herself away, and makes it as far as the hallway outside before she’s sliding to a crouch. There’s a sob caught in her lungs, she thinks. A dense cluster of emotion, a physical tightness she can’t shake loose or swallow. Too close. That was too close.</p><p>She ducks her head between her knees. Brings her arms up, tangles fingers into her hair, sits curled into a ball in the hallway for as long as she can stand. Exists- <em> damaged, unforgivable, trying, monster </em>- and does not cry.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p><br/><br/><br/><br/>That day, back in April- a late spring evening when the ground was a little damp- Jon’s throat had quivered under her blade. </p><p>If the world was about people getting what they deserved, then he would have turned that knife back around on her.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://artswaps.tumblr.com/">I'm on tumblr @artswaps</a><br/>Ch. 2 incoming. Please leave comments they keep me going 🥺</p></blockquote></div></div>
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